by Jon Athan
Kiara wept and mumbled incoherently. She looked to her left, then to her right, but nothing changed. She saw nothing but darkness—and it terrified her. What the hell is happening?–she thought.
Daisy held a jar with her gloved hands. She grabbed Kiara's cheeks and pushed her head to one side at an angle. She started collecting the captive's drool.
Micah pulled a box cutter out of his pocket. He said, “I need you to feel pain, ma'am. When I'm done, I may ask you for forgiveness. This... This is part of the mission. It's part of the dream. Don't take it personal.”
Kiara sobbed as a rapid clicking sound emerged in the kitchen. She couldn't see the source of the noise, but she recognized the sound. She had used utility knives at work before. It was the sound of a blade extending from the handle of a retractable box cutter.
Micah grabbed her left hand. He separated her pinky and ring fingers, then he sawed into the webbing between her fingers. Kiara shrieked as blood squirted from her hand. She moved her arm and wiggled her wrist, but to no avail. Micah sawed into the webbing until the thin blade passed her knuckles.
The sheriff said, “Hold still. You'll only make this worse for yourself if you keep moving like that. Do you hear me, girl?”
Kiara cried, “Stop it! Pl–Please, we... we didn't do anything to you.”
“I know that. That's why I'm trying to make it easy for y'all. Now, stop moving.”
Micah separated her ring and middle fingers. The blade easily sliced into the webbing between her fingers. Her other fingers involuntarily twitched, blood dripping from her palm and fingertips. The blade slid past her knuckles. Unable to tolerate the pain, Kiara moved her hand, causing the razor-sharp blade to cut deeper into her hand. The blade nearly reached the center of her palm, cutting through her muscle and ligaments.
Frustrated, Micah said, “Shit. You see what you made me do? I didn't want to... to mangle your hand like that, ma'am. I don't want to hurt you like this. You have to stop moving.”
The sheriff moved over to the next set of fingers—the middle and index fingers. He repeated the process: he cut into the webbing between her fingers until the blade passed her knuckles.
Kiara couldn't stop her hand from trembling. The pain caused her to twitch, squirm, and scream. Micah pulled the box cutter out of her hand. He placed his hands on his hips and examined the damage.
Kiara's hand was split down the middle, revealing her bones and ligaments. Blood-red and bone-white—that was all he could see in the gash. The cuts between her other fingers were small and insignificant in comparison. Her entire hand was soaked in blood, from her fingertips to her wrist. The blood dripped onto the workbench, then it spilled down to the ground from over the edge like a red waterfall.
Micah grabbed her twitching index and middle fingers in one hand and her ring and pinky fingers in the other. He stared down at Kiara's face and watched her cry. She felt his grip on her fingers, but she didn't see it coming. With one swift movement, the sheriff pulled his hands away from each other. The gash grew larger with a loud and moist crunching sound. Her hand was cut down the middle all the way down to her wrist.
Kiara gasped, then she screamed and sobbed. She convulsed on the table, unable to tolerate the insufferable pain.
Her eyes locked on the jar, Daisy said, “She's not giving much, Micah. There's... There's probably only an ounce in there.”
“Then we'll just have to try something else.,” Micah responded.
Her head spinning, Kiara said, “Wait. I–I'll give you what you want. Just don't... don't hurt me anymore. O–Okay? I'll... I'll give you the saliva. Take it.”
She blindly spat into the air. The blob of saliva landed on her bottom lip and chin. She spat again, but the saliva just rained down onto her face.
Her voice cracking, she repeated, “Take it...”
As he approached the stove, the sheriff said, “That's not enough. I need more than a spit or two. It's not your fault, though. Pain accelerates the process. So, it's really my fault. I'm not hurting you enough.”
“You're hurting me enough, sir. I'm serious. Don't... Don't do this. I'm begging you.”
“Don't worry, ma'am. We're going to move on to something else. It's going to hurt, physically and mentally.”
Micah lifted the kettle from the stove. Fumes spewed from the spout. The water had surpassed 200-degrees.
The sheriff asked, “Have you ever heard of Chinese Water Torture? It's a simple but effective method of torture. You see, the interrogator would drop water on a prisoner's forehead until the prisoner lost his mind. Just a drop of water. That's all. It doesn't cause physical pain, but it makes you feel like you have a brain aneurysm. An ulcer, you understand? We don't have time to torture you like that, so we're going to try something different. We're going to use boiling water—and it's going to burn like hell.”
“Pl–Please, don't do this. I'll do anything. I'll... I'll... I'll fuck you! I'll do it! I swear! Just don't hurt me anymore! I... I can't feel my hand, sir. I can't...”
Disregarding Kiara's offer, Micah tilted the kettle a meter above Kiara's head. A droplet of boiling water dripped from the spout and plopped on her forehead. Kiara screamed and shook her head. The water streamed down the space between her eyebrows—her glabella.
Kiara bounced on the table and yelled, “Stop!”
Micah firmly grabbed the top of her head and stopped her from moving. He quietly waited for twenty seconds, purposely keeping Kiara on edge. He carefully tilted the kettle and dripped another droplet onto her forehead.
Kiara shrieked in pain. The droplet landed on the same place on her forehead. The water burned her skin, turning the center of her brow red.
The sheriff grabbed a fistful of her hair and pinned her head to the workbench. Again, he patiently waited for twenty seconds, then he spilled another drop on her head. Plop, plop, plop—the sheriff continued the process for a few minutes. He spilled around twenty drops on her head.
The twenty seconds between each drop felt like an eternity to Kiara. She couldn't see the water because of the blindfold, either. The skin on her brow reddened and peeled. It irritated her, begging to be scratched. She felt an inexplicable pressure in her head, too, as if she were having a migraine at the center of her forehead. She felt pain behind her eyes as well. It didn't seem possible, but she felt it.
Kiara had stopped screaming before the twentieth drop. She whimpered and twitched with each drop, but she didn't shriek.
Daisy collected the saliva dripping from the side of her mouth. She wasn't bothered by the torture. Thanks to her gloves, she didn't feel any of the boiling water, either. She solely focused on the jar of saliva. Like Esther, the woman was trained for the peculiar job. She didn't love it, but she was skillful and obedient.
As he stared down at the captive, Micah said, “You're not crying anymore, so I guess you're not feeling any pain. And, if you're not feeling any pain, I ain't really doing my job, am I? So, let's see how you like this.”
Before she could respond, Micah tilted the kettle forward. A stream of scalding water jetted out of the spout and splashed on Kiara's forehead. A bloodcurdling shriek escaped the captive's mouth, echoing through the entire house. The water streamed across her brow and cheeks like sweat on a hot summer day, burning her soft skin.
Her head was scarred with third-degree burns, leaving a permanent mark of torture on her brow, cheeks, and scalp. Blood oozed out from under her peeling skin. Some of her skin even blackened, charred by the water. If it wasn't for the blindfold, her eyes would have surely suffered as well. She still felt the headache anyway.
Daisy teetered as Kiara violently convulsed on the table. The saliva rippled as the jar slipped and slid in her hands. The water torture caught her by surprise. She witnessed her husband's evolving torture methods before, but she still doubted him. She stared at her husband with a set of concerned eyes, as if to say: are you sure you know what you're doing?
As he walked around the workbench, Mica
h patted Daisy's shoulder and said, “Don't worry, I'll get her. You just keep that jar ready.”
He approached a counter near the sink. He pulled a chef's knife out of a knife block. Light gleamed off of the clean blade. He approached the center of the workbench.
Kiara panted and twitched as she slowly recomposed herself. She couldn't feel her scalp or brow. She felt like the top-half of her head was missing. Preoccupied with her burned head, she didn't notice the sheriff lifting her shirt up to her navel. She gasped as Micah circled her bellybutton with the tip of the blade.
Micah sliced her lower abdomen, directly below her belly button. Blood leaked from the four-inch laceration. The cut wasn't deep, but it stung.
As he stared at her stomach, the sheriff said, “Daisy, get the bucket and the rat.” He gently slapped Kiara's stomach and said, “I hope you don't mind, ma'am, but we're going to have to really hurt you to get that saliva. So, here's what's going to happen. We're going to put a rat on your stomach, then we're going to place a bucket over the rat, then we're going to heat up the bucket. You know what happens next, don't you?”
Kiara grimaced and sobbed. She had read enough books and watched enough movies to know what was going to happen.
Smirking, Micah said, “That filthy, disease-ridden rat is going to claw and chew through your stomach. He's going to play with your intestines and it's going to hurt. It's going to be the worst pain you–”
Tap, tap, tap—the faint sound entered the kitchen. What is that?–Kiara thought, her mutilated brow furrowed. There was a moment of silence. Then, the tapping continued. As if they recognized the sound at the same time, the sheriff and the prisoner simultaneously turned towards the archway. Someone was knocking on the front door.
Kiara yelled, “Help! I'm in here!”
Micah struck down at her face with a powerful jab. The punch pushed one of her top incisor teeth into her gums. She gagged on the pungent taste of her own blood. The sheriff pulled a crumpled ball of aluminum foil out of his pocket. From the foil, he retrieved a tab of LSD. He shoved the LSD into Kiara's mouth.
Micah beckoned to Daisy and said, “Get a gag on her before she starts screaming again. I'm going to get rid of our guests.”
He rushed to the sink and vigorously rubbed his hands. The knocking continued at the front door. Shit, he thought, who the hell could it be? He grabbed a towel from the counter and marched into the hallway.
As he dried his hands, he opened the basement door and said, “Esther, darling, we've got company. Gag that woman and keep it down.”
He closed the door and tossed the towel on the console table. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, mentally preparing himself for the unexpected confrontation. He sighed, then he smiled and walked up to the front door.
Chapter Thirteen
Visitors
The front door swung open. The screen door was already open. Micah stood in the doorway, examining his uninvited guests with inquisitive eyes. Dylan and Christopher stood on his porch. He recognized Dylan since the townspeople worked closely together, but he didn't know Christopher. He could link the pieces, though.
Micah took a big whiff, then he said, “I don't smell the town burning, Dylan. So, what are you doing here?”
Dylan rubbed the nape of his neck and said, “Sorry to show up at your door unannounced, Mr. Wakefield. I know you asked not to be bothered and all, but, well, I ran into a little problem. Or, I think a little problem ran into me.” He swayed his head and darted his eyes at Christopher. He continued, “You see, I was getting ready to load those cars you told me about when this man ran up on me. Now, I was just about to shoot him and call you, but then he told me something interesting.”
“Get to the point. I'm a little busy.”
“Well, he said he was attacked in your house. He said someone killed his friend here, too. And, he hasn't heard back from his other friends. And those friends were supposed to be looking for you, Mr. Wakefield.”
Micah stared at Dylan with a blank expression—emotionless. He glanced over at Christopher. Christopher stood behind the tow driver, but he could still see the sheriff from over the chubby man's shoulder. The pair locked eyes, reading each other like novels from their favorite authors.
Micah asked, “What are you trying to say, Dylan?”
Christopher said, “You're hiding something.”
Micah huffed and shook his head, as if he were amused by the accusation. His gesture said: you believe this guy?
The sheriff said, “I'm not hiding a thing, young man. I am who I am.”
“You're a liar. I came to this house this morning with a friend. A–A blonde-haired guy, probably the same age as me... Your deformed slave or girlfriend or wife... or... or... whatever the fuck she is, she attacked my friend. She killed James. You can't tell me that didn't happen.”
Micah raised his hands up to his chest, as if he were surrendering to the police after a high-speed chase. He nodded as he stared at Christopher. He acted as if he knew what was happening. In reality, he planned on turning the tables against him.
The sheriff smiled and said, “I think I know what's going on. You see, Dylan, earlier today, a young man and his friend showed up at my door, drugged up and yapping about some insane bullshit. My wife told me so, and you know my wife never lies. They scared the crap out of her, trying to force their way into my house. I had to rush over here to calm her down. Hell, that's why I had to take the rest of the day off. This man must have been one of those unruly visitors. He might even be on drugs.”
Christopher said, “Bullshit. Bullshit! Your wife is a... a monster! She doesn't need you to calm her down. She needs tranquilizers. No, she... she needs to be put away! She needs to be locked up!”
“Now, don't go insulting my wife. I didn't–”
“Fuck you. Where's Kiara? Where are you keeping her? What the–”
“Micah, honey, is everything okay?” Daisy asked as she approached the front door from the living room archway. She stood beside her husband and glanced at their guests. She said, “Hello, Dylan. Hello, um... stranger.”
Christopher clenched his jaw and stepped in reverse, shocked. Daisy's skin was fair and clean. She didn't have stitches on her face. Both of her eyes functioned properly, too. Her clothing resembled Esther's outfit, but she gave off a different aura. She appeared honest and benign. Who the hell is she?–he thought.
“Good to see you, ma'am.” Dylan responded, grinning from ear-to-ear. He nudged Christopher's elbow and said, “Daisy is a mighty fine woman. She never looked 'deformed' or whatnot to me. She might be somethin' different to you out-of-town folk because she's not prancing around half-naked, but she's beautiful around here. You should watch your tongue when you talk about another man's wife. That ain't right, boy.”
Christopher stuttered, “It–It's not right. Something... Something's wrong. Someone else attacked us. It was a different woman. I swear, she killed James and she chased me to those abandoned houses over there! She chased me with a fucking chainsaw, man!”
“Calm down, calm down,” Dylan responded with a raised brow. He chuckled, then he said, “Listen, I think you've watched one too many movies. We're in Texas, but that doesn't mean there's a chainsaw massacre every day in these parts. This is a regular town and you're bringing a whole bunch of crazy into it.”
“I'm not crazy! I'm not high! I saw it happen! I had blood on my hands! I still have some blood on my shirt for fuck's sake! Look!”
Dylan examined Christopher's t-shirt and hands. Dried blood stained his hands, leaving pink streaks across his skin. Several dark spots were scattered across his shirt—James' blood. His story checked out.
Micah said, “Listen, we're about to have supper. Although this was supposed to be a special dinner between my wife and myself, I'd be happy if you two joined us. We can discuss this 'situation' in a more appropriate setting. Does that sound good?”
“Hell no,” Christopher snapped. “I'm not going in there
with that... that thing in the house. Just tell me where you're keeping my girlfriend before things turn ugly.”
Dylan said, “Let's just all calm down. Look, I think this is a good idea. I'm tired of standing out here and I'm starved. I'm always up for a good meal, too. Daisy always gets her hands on the best meat in town. Trust me, you've never tried anything like this in the big city, boy.”
“Excellent,” Micah said, smirking.
As she walked down the hall, Daisy said, “I'll check on the meal.”
Before they could enter the house, Dylan said, “Hey, sheriff.” Micah glanced back at him. Dylan thrust his hips forward and said, “I want to thank you for the hospitality, but, just remember, these are serious allegations. We can eat, we can chat, but I don't want to play any games. Alright?”
Micah stared down at the tow driver's waist. The grip of his revolver protruded from his waistband. One false move and the tow driver would shoot his cock off.
Micah said, “It's just a friendly dinner. Come on, let's get to the bottom of this.”
He stepped aside and beckoned to his guests. Dylan nodded at Micah, then he walked into the house. Christopher stood on the porch, horrified. He feared the sheriff and the disfigured woman, but he had to save his girlfriend. He couldn't stop thinking about Kiara. He found some comfort in Dylan's vague threat, too. He sighed, then he entered the house.
Chapter Fourteen
The Truth
Daisy walked around the dining room table, gently humming as she placed a white ceramic plate in front of each seat. There were three seats on the long sides and one seat at each end—eight total. Micah sat at one end, Dylan sat to his right, and Christopher sat to the tow driver's right. The dimly-lit room was thick with tension.
